Our Endless Numbered Days
by ericajanebarry
Summary: "There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days." -Sam Beam (Iron & Wine) Series of prompts chronicling various moments in the romance of Reginald and Isobel Crawley. Modern-set but could likely have occurred at any time in the 21st century. Every period from childhood to university, from marriage to widowhood will be covered. Rating will vary by chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I was supposed to participate in Camp NaNoWriMo in April, but that proved impossible due to the death of my uncle. Still, I've been collecting all sorts of things that inspire me to write: songs, quotes from television shows, photos, personal experiences and so on.**

 **I've always wanted a place to gather my thoughts on the lives and the marriage of Isobel and Reginald. Richobel is everything to me of course, but I have a working theory (based largely upon Isobel's quote in S04E06 about being "sick with love" for Reginald when they got engaged) that her marriage to Reginald was a very passionate, loving one. And there's always been speculation that Isobel must have been a recurrent miscarriage sufferer, or she'd have had more children. And Pen had a son, stillborn, before she had her daughter. So there's that explained.**

 **So I intend for Our Endless Numbered Days (titled after a line in the Iron & Wine song "Passing Afternoon") to be a collection of prompts written about various stages of Reginald and Isobel's relationship. They will not follow a linear timeline at all, but taken together they will all be pieces of a whole. I'm sure that for most folks it won't be anywhere near as interesting as a Richobel prompt series and for that I do apologize; I just think Isobel (or, I suppose, _my_ Isobel) is able to love again because Reginald loved her so well, and that relationship deserves to be explored.  
**

 **This opening segment was prompted by things I've experienced, both alone and with my family, since my uncle died. When I think of Isobel I think of strength, but it's strength born of loss, so during the funeral and ever since then she has been on my mind a great deal. Anyhow, enough rambling.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 **Prompts: "I can't bring myself to talk about him in the past tense," and "If there's anything you need, give me a call"**

* * *

There is so very little that brings her any kind of solace anymore. Matthew has been back at school a week now, and if ever there was a time she needed Mum, this would be it. But Mum was taken from her over a year ago, and now she is alone. Oh, there are offers, to be sure. So many in fact that she's bloody fed up with hearing, "Just ring me if there's anything you need." Everyone is so well-intentioned. Colleagues, neighbours, even patients. Her brother and sister-in-law.

But she finds herself wanting to shout, "I'll tell you what I need: bring my husband back! Make him breathe again! Start his heart! Can you do that?"

It would be beneath her dignity. As if, she snickers bitterly, she could be arsed about dignity anymore. But she swallows it down for him. He was above all of that.

She needs desperately to sleep, but it eludes her. It was during the night when he left her (her mouth; her _mind_ cannot bring itself to say that he _died_ ). She'll certainly never be able to sleep in their bed again. Her sister-in-law changed the sheets after, in a bid to help, but she strictly forbade Alley from washing them. She'll never wash them. They were the last place he was. The last place _they_ ever were together.

She wishes she were where he is. He had —he _has_ — her heart by entireties; there is nothing for her here. Her home, her work. Her music. None of it holds any meaning for her now, without him. Her days pass in a relentless tunnel of blackness.

Except for the secret that only he knows. The knowledge they share is one of two things that can coax a smile from her during the endless identical nights.

 _It won't be a secret for very much longer,_ she muses, stretching to lie down on the couch. The fabric of her nightshirt pulls flat across her belly. She can't believe no one has outed her yet. Owing to the fact that this is not her first go-round (not by far), it's really quite plain to see. She flattens her palms over the bump and feels a corresponding flutter, a _ripple, kick, kick,_ under her hand and deep within. She is sixteen weeks gone today and they were just starting to enjoy it, she and he.

The first time the baby kicked so that it could be felt from the outside, was also the last time they made love. _The last time I'll ever make love,_ she muses bitterly. The evening was a gift, well and truly, and she's glad she recognised it as such at the time. The fact that he was gone from her two weeks later would have rendered it sweet in hindsight even if reality hadn't borne it out.

 _Oh, but had it ever._

* * *

 **Two weeks earlier:  
**

They were in the shower that evening, after his follow-up with the cardiologist. He still needed her help in order to manage safely, but he was steady on his feet at last.

She'd caught him staring at her body, at the baby bump that had suddenly and quite boldly made its presence known.

"See anything you fancy?" she teased.

He smiled, and for a moment it felt like old times. His face had borne a slight droop on the right side since the stroke, but just in the past several days that had resolved. And his speech, particularly when he was well rested, was so much improved that at times it seemed like nothing had never happened.

"Mm-hmm, all of it," he answered, reaching out to her. She moved in close, revelling in the heat of his body, and held him for a long moment. Then, smiling up at him, she turned in his arms, her back against his chest.

He groaned as her bum pressed against his groin, his hands gripping her hips. When his warm palms slid down to the swell of her belly to hold her, she exhaled a breathy, _"Ohh!"_

"Missed you. Missed this," he murmured, kissing the back of her neck.

"Oh, darling, I've missed you too," she told him, letting her head fall back against his chest. She had slipped so quickly into carer mode after the stroke, tending to all of his needs with no thought for the fear that gripped her heart like a vise. It isn't that he 'd ever necessarily taken the lead in their marriage; they'd always shared that role. But it had been so peculiar —and frightening— suddenly having to take decisions in his behalf, without his input. Having seen him laid out in the floor of the surgery unconscious, having been on the receiving end of his frustration when he had things to say to her in the ensuing weeks but couldn't find the words. "Feels so good, your hands on me. Feels like us again."

She began to move, sliding silkily against his body underneath the warm spray. He had been so apprehensive about whether they would ever touch like this again. Would he be well enough? Would she still see him in that way, as her lover, weak and unintelligible as he'd become? It certainly appeared as though she did, but how would his body respond?

Apparently some things are indeed, as the adage suggests, just like riding a bicycle, for as she slid against him, warm and wanton and swollen with his child, he felt the stirrings of arousal. "Isobel," he moaned.

Through half-lidded eyes she looked at him over her shoulder. "Do you want me?"

He ducked his head. "You've no idea," he rasped in her ear.

She laughed, full and seductive. "Oh, I think I do, love!" She paused, turning to face him again. "Are you anxious?"

He looked away from her. "Petrified," he confessed.

"Hey," she said, holding onto his forearms as she stood on tiptoe, kissing him swiftly, "it's alright, you know. Whatever happens, I love you."

He returned her kiss and then drew her to him, his hands cupping her buttocks as the tiny protrusion of her belly brushed against his lower abdomen. "Suppose I can't— "

"Shh." She cut him off, pressing her fingers to his lips. "It's me, darling. You've nothing to fear. Let's just be together, eh? Just like this if you want to. Does it feel good to you?"

"Are you kidding me?"

She smiled softly. "Well then, let's …" And she kissed him longingly, her hands on his face, feeling him grow harder where his groin rested against her belly. He held tightly to her bum, her hips, lest he begin to feel unstable.

His kiss was full of promise, of relief. He had been so stoic about the stroke, so determined to give all he had to recovery, but behind the impassive front lay a great deal of fear. Emboldened by her response, he let his hands wander, tracing over curves and planes he'd been afraid he would never touch again. The tip of her tongue touched his bottom lip and he moaned into her mouth.

She backed him up against the shower wall, a predatory look in her eyes, and began raining kisses across his shoulders, nipping at his throat. She licked his nipple and he growled, his hands balling into fists.

When she looked up at him through her lashes, he found he couldn't breathe. She was once again the little girl in plaits and gymslip, chasing him and Eddie round the schoolyard. She was the firecracker, aged fifteen, whose lips he tasted for the first time on her graduation day. She was his bride at nineteen, a vision in ivory lace, dark sultry eyes beneath her veil. She was his stormbraver, aged twenty; first in her class, receiving her MBChB on the same weekend as she delivered her father's eulogy. She was the mother of two babies lost before she was aged twenty-one and one he delivered into her arms at long last on Mothering Sunday the year she was twenty-five. She had bled for him, beside him; had lost parents whom she dearly loved. She'd put her own training on the shelf at times so that he could advance as they raised their son. Through all of it she had been the personification of courage, grace and love.

"Izzy," he murmured as she rubbed the soap over his chest, her hands massaging him as she worked up the lather.

"Talk to me, Reg. I shan't do anything you don't feel comfortable with."

"I want to touch you, but—" He hesitated before he could finish.

"It's the shower, isn't it? Not sure of your footing in here. I should have thought."

He took hold of her shoulders. "No, you shouldn't have. We always did this. You're naked and wet and beautiful. Shouldn't have to change what we do …"

"... And we won't always, alright? This is temporary, darling. We'll manage. Let's finish and go to bed. Here …" She soaped herself, then set the bar down and took his hands, placing them on her breasts.

"Not tender?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Not anymore."

He smoothed his palms over her flesh gently, slowly, glancing across her nipples.

"Oh, _God,"_ she breathed.

"Turn, precious," he rasped, and she did so eagerly. His arms came round her, taking her breasts back into his hands, kneading and massaging. He didn't need to be incredibly dexterous for this, and his heart soared as she writhed against him. He slid his left hand downward, pausing along the way to caress the bump, pressing her back against him. His arousal teased the cleft of her bum as his fingers slipped down to the apex of her thighs and he held her that way, one arm across her breasts and the other hand pressed firmly against her mound.

"Reggie," she panted, "oh, I want you, love. That feels so good."

"You may have to help me," he confessed, nibbling her earlobe.

She turned off the taps, stepping out of the shower to get their towels. She offered her hand to him and he took it into his own, raising their hands to his lips. He kissed the back of hers, open-mouthed and with a look in his eyes that made her heart beat faster. She dried his back, his legs, and the desire was strong, as she knelt, to take him into her mouth. She would save that for later, she decided, but she couldn't resist reaching out to run her index finger along his length before she rose to her feet.

Securing the towel around his waist, she stepped back from him to dry her own body. The heat of his gaze and the friction of the terry cloth against her nipples made her gasp; she cried out as she ran the fabric between her legs and he swore.

" _Jesus,_ Izzy."

"Rather." Smilingly, with heavy-lidded eyes, she dropped her towel and took his hand.

"Can you switch the light on?" she asked as she turned down the covers. He flipped the switch for the bedside lamps and she walked towards him.

 **oOo**

He took hold of her waist with his weaker arm, his right hand tilting her chin up. Her eyes drifted shut, her mouth drawn into a sweet smile as her bottom lip quivered in anticipation of his kiss. He flicked his tongue at it and she moved forward, slanting her mouth against his. Yanking his towel away, she felt him surge against her hip and slipped her hand around his penis, holding him tenderly.

"Is this alright?" she asked when the kiss broke.

"Feels wonderful," he panted, tracing his fingers along her spine.

She climbed onto the bed, stacking pillows against the headboard while he sat down on the edge and, with some effort, pushed himself to recline against them.

"Do you want more?" she murmured, kneeling in front of him, moving his knees apart with her own.

" _Please,"_ he replied, and if he felt helpless; if he felt like he ought to be the one taking her, it didn't matter at all as she moved, stroking him firmly, her breasts bouncing. "My God, look at you!"

"What?" she grinned, bending her head to kiss his belly, running her lips along the trail of fine hair leading from his navel to the base of his shaft.

"You take my breath away." He was full of awe, and she watched the arc of his throat, his Adam's apple straining against the skin as his head rolled back.

"Am I making you feel good?" she asked him. Her eyes were so earnest that he fought back tears.

"Oh, Izzy," he murmured, "I feel like a husband again. Come here." His hands came to rest on her hips as she straddled his lap, and she let him move her as her open wetness slipped against the length of him, not taking him inside of her yet; simply revelling in the feel of one another.

"I thought I might never love you like this again." He whispered it against her skin, his face buried in the soft junction of her neck and shoulder.

"We're here now, Reggie. We're here, and I'm yours. And I love you so much." She threaded her fingers into his hair as she ground against him softly.

She raised up on her knees and he kissed her breasts, delighted that he could still make her writhe, make her cry out for him. She was still so thin that it worried him, but as she moved above him now she was all tantalizing curves; her breasts slightly fuller with the pregnancy, her nipples dark and swollen. And that bump. The sweet evidence of their best-kept secret. A baby in their forties; starting all over again.

"I want to touch you, precious," he told her, "but I'm not sure I can make you come." He looked rueful and she couldn't bear it.

"You know I never did fancy these hair-shirt moods of yours." She rolled her eyes and it made him smile. "Hey, look at me," she said authoritatively, and he complied. Her eyes were so dark, her cheeks flushed pink, her chest rising and falling with every gasping breath. "Babe, I'm _so close_ already, just being with you. It's not going to take much, and if we need to we'll do it together. Come on."

He caressed her belly and let his hand drift between their bodies to touch her. He thought he'd never felt her so hot and smooth and slick. He felt the pull, the tingling in his spine. Wanting her. He drew circles with his fingertips ever-so-gently and she moaned, wanting to move against his hand but willing herself to keep still for him.

"Reg … God, s'good, love!" Her eyes were screwed shut, her head thrown back. He leant forward to mouth her nipple and she fairly screamed. "Oh! Like that! Just like that!" Her own hand replaced his between her legs, freeing him to lavish her breasts, and she slid down on him, taking him inside her in a maddeningly, deliciously slow manner.

" _Christ,_ Iz!" he exclaimed sharply against her skin.

She laughed, throaty and sexy and joyous, and it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. "Yeah? S'that good, darling?" She flexed her hips until she had taken him fully and stilled, cherishing the feeling of fullness, of oneness with him.

They continued like this, trading whispered promises and exclamations of love until it overwhelmed her, welling up suddenly from deep within. "Oh!" she cried, "oh, Reggie! My God, my GOD!" She locked eyes with him as she trembled, letting him see the way he'd undone her, the way that only he could do.

She fell against him carefully as her peak receded, breathing heavily against his chest as he soothed her. "My Izzy," he whispered into her hair, planting kisses on the crown of her head. "My wife, my darling."

When she had recovered the strength to look up at him, her appearance said it all. He marvelled at the way she looked sated and ravenous at the same time. "Oh my God, Reg, that was … _oh my God!"_

He grinned at her ineloquence, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's because you're pregnant and insatiable."

She boxed him lightly about the ears. "It is not!" He shook his head in amusement and she hedged. "Well, you're probably not entirely wrong. But that was all you, love. Being so close to you again …" She trailed off with a shake of her head, swiping at a rogue teardrop that had spilled down her right cheek.

"Oi," he whispered, "c'mere." Her arms went round his neck and he kissed her, at first sweetly, then with fervour as her lips parted under his. She raised herself up and away from him almost entirely, then sank back down hard.

" _Damn,"_ he gasped, "... what you do to me, Isobel!"

"Oh!" She inhaled sharply as she rose and fell on him, her orgasm having left her wonderfully sensitised to the feel of him.

She leant her forehead against his and he held her hips as she flexed them, taking him deep. "Reggie," she whispered against his lips, "I love you. I love this. _Us._ You see, they can't take this away from us. It's ours."

He moaned at the sound of her voice, at the tight, soft warmth of her. "Just like that, Izzy. God, don't stop!" He clung to her, his gaze never leaving hers as she took him, bracing herself on his forearms for leverage and breathing heavily with the effort.

In the end it was a tiny cry that broke him, as he mustered the strength to pull her down hard, to answer the rocking of her hips with a singular upthrust of his own. She bit her lip and gasped, "Love!"

"Sweetheart!" he shouted, holding fast to her, his fingertips leaving white impressions on her skin as he came.

"That's it," she whispered in his ear. "That's it, Reg. Oh darling, that feels so good!" She held him close, soothed him, continued to move until he stilled her with his hands and with his kiss.

She held him; he held her until their breathing slowed, until she was forced, regretfully, to disentangle herself from him and answer the call of her nagging bladder.

He chuckled when she told him and she narrowed her eyes, retrieving a throw pillow from the floor and chucking it at him playfully as she rose from the bed. "Ah, Izzy … been a long time, hasn't it?" A long time since the weight of a baby had necessitated such close proximity to the loo. A long time thinking they'd struck gold with Matthew; certain that their family was complete. An eternity, it seemed, since they'd been together like this.

"Mmm," she hummed in affirmation, "a lifetime." She paused, feeling far too much to put into words: fear and love and gratitude and joy; a sense of it all rocketing by too fast. But she smiled softly, lest he get the wrong end of the stick. "I shan't be long."

 **oOo**

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, she'd shaken off the trepidation that had risen up out of nowhere. She watched his eyes on her nude form as she approached the bed, thinking what a trick it was to be aged forty-one, married twenty-two years and still manage to turn her husband's head.

"Feeling alright?" she asked as she crawled back into bed beside him.

"Mmm," he hummed. "Rather boneless at the moment. Not a care in the world." The blissful smile on his face, the unclouded blue of his eyes. The stroke had aged him. It didn't matter to her; he would always be a beautiful man in her eyes and besides, age, in men, had a peculiar way of enhancing their appeal. But now, as she looked at him, she caught a moment's glimpse of the boy who had kissed her on commencement day. She made to pull the covers up over them, but he caught her hand in his.

"Leave it. I want to see you."

She lay on her side, propped up on her elbow, glancing up at him. "Yes, alright," she said, stretching up to kiss him. They were quiet, and she laid a hand on the bump as she watched him watching her.

Suddenly she gasped. "My goodness, I'd forgot about this!" She took his hand and placed it where hers had been. The bump was hard as a rock. Of course, she knew the science behind it: the uterus contracts after orgasm; it's only that it isn't obvious except during pregnancy.

"Oh yes! It's rather a different thing experiencing it firsthand than explaining it to a patient," he agreed, unable to stop touching her now. "Do you mind if I …"

"Oh, no, of course not!" She lay flat on her back, watching as he spread his hands across her belly. She could do this herself only she wasn't supposed to, and he'd still been in residential care, unable to accompany her when her own doctor had examined her two weeks previous.

"Well, Doctor, what's the prognosis?" She grinned at him, thinking no manual examination had ever been so delightful; gladdened by the look in his eyes, the determination. Perhaps he'd be back in the surgery before the year was out after all.

He took hold of her hand. "The head is just here; do you feel that?" She nodded. "Everything checks out. Measurements are true to dates in spite of … everything." At this point he ceased being the clinician and became the husband again. "You're glowing, Izzy. I know it's trite to say so, but you are. And you feel incredible." He paused for a moment, then shook his head incredulously. "Thank you, darling."

Her brow furrowed. "For …?"

"For everything," he told her. "All of it. Getting me to hospital so quickly, and advocating for me when I couldn't. For staying by my side despite Ed's demands that you come in to work. And all of it whilst feeling like death incarnate." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. She could tell he was tired, that soon he would be finished conversing for the night. "I need to say this before I can't anymore. You're so strong, darling. Thank you for being willing to do all this again. I know it's been miserable for you, and you know I'd love you just the same if you'd decided you couldn't go through with it this time."

She sat up, taking his face in her hands. "Reggie, I could never … I would _never_ take a decision like that without you. And I couldn't ever _not_ have your baby. _Our_ baby. And now that the sickness is gone, I hardly remember it." He looked askance at her, wondering whether she wasn't embellishing just a little. Two months on total parenteral nutrition and intravenous hydration, him having fallen ill in the middle of it all; her brother insistent that she put in full shifts in the surgery because they were already in over their heads with the loss of Reg.

"Well, alright," she equivocated, "I may remember it, but I'll never regret it. I'd do it all again, you know. For you." She lay back down, pulling him with her, settling with her back against his chest.

He kissed the back of her neck, caressed her breasts, held her belly. "Have you felt her move yet?"

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. _"Her?"_

Smiling at her with his eyes, he shrugged. "Just a feeling. But I was right about Matthew."

"Yes, you were! I have felt a few little ripples, you know? I hope you can feel it soon."

"What do you think, baby girl? Can you say hello to Daddy?" They waited, Isobel hardly daring to breathe lest they miss it. "If I'm right," he told her, "I want to name her for you."

"You're mad, you know. I don't … _why,_ Reg?"

"Why not, Izzy?" he countered. "You're a beautiful woman with a beautiful name and there's no one else I'd want our daughter to take after."

"Flatterer." She landed a kiss on his jaw. "All the same though, I could hardly call a child by my name every day. It feels … I don't know … imperious. You wouldn't let me name Matthew after you for the same reason. What if we were to name her in honour of Mum?"

"You know she'd hate it if she knew," he told her.

"Yes, well … She's not here to object, so I'm claiming executive daughter privilege. In my view there's no one I'd rather she be like. All I am, I owe to her after all."

"Fiona it is then."

"Fiona Regina," she asserted. "For her gran and her daddy." Before he could object, there was the tiniest flutter of movement against his hand.

"You see? She approves!" She had told herself she wouldn't cry, but suddenly all bets were off. As he continued to hold her, they felt another tiny kick (or perhaps it was an elbow), and then a third. Then there was a series of four in rapid succession, and she shook with happy sobs.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. "I'm sorry. I'm sure it's hormonal." She swiped at her eyes and chuckled, and so did he. "I prayed for this, you know, but I never expected … It's been a wonderful night, hasn't it? First making love, then connecting with our baby. Talking with you again. Feeling you again. I'm overwhelmed in the very best of ways." She left out the bit about feeling as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He was past his limit and thoroughly exhausted and they didn't talk much more after that. He couldn't stop touching her, and she soaked it all in, languid under his hands. When his caresses slowed, she knew he was nearly asleep. "I love you, Reggie," she told him. "You're my whole heart."

"I love you, Izzy. I've loved you always. I'll love you forevermore."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I teased this on Tumblr and the response left me thinking I really should post it. I suppose it comes as little surprise that I've fallen in love with Reginald and Isobel. I'd love to say I have plans to tell their entire story from beginning to end, but it's clear by the dearth of updates this year that I am not that writer anymore. Still, I'm proud of this and I hope you enjoy.  
**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 **Manchester, 1972**

It _would_ rain on commencement day. She checks her hair in the mirror one last time. She's fixed it twice since arriving. Thankfully they've moved the ceremony indoors. She smooths her collar, rolls her shoulders. Practises her smile as the words of her speech run through her head. She mouths them, pacing, the _click-click-click_ of her high heels echoing off the walls, setting a cadence for her to follow.

She is nervous. It isn't that she lacks confidence in her ability to deliver the speech, exactly, it's …

Her musings are interrupted by a knock at the door. "There she is … the woman of the hour!"

She turns to see Reginald Crawley stood in the doorway in coat and tie.

"Reggie! Oh wow, hi! I hadn't expected you to turn up today. I shouldn't have thought Daddy could spare you."

"We only had two patients on for this afternoon and both of them rang to cancel. And even if they hadn't, your mum would have persuaded him to close early. It's not every day his only daughter delivers the Head Girl's speech at Lady Barn House."

"About that …" she mutters, studying the floorboards.

"What is it? Not nervous, are you? You've performed a thousand times."

She responds with a withering look. Meets his eyes. Sees him grinning, and grins back. Shrugging her shoulders, she tells him, "Yes, but speaking is rather a different animal from playing piano. That, and I still feel like a bit of an interloper, I suppose."

"Because you're leaving a year early and these aren't the lot you started with."

She opens her mouth to reply, then closes it promptly. _He's done it again_ , she realises. He's said precisely what she's thinking. _Again,_ because it's been happening rather frequently of late. It's true that they spend a lot of time with each other, she managing the clerical things at her father's surgery and he assisting with as many procedures as his training permits. She works the maximum hours allotted a secondary student, determined to put by as much money as she can for her university tuition fees. But her brother works just as much as the both of them, and if he's got any inkling as to her mental state he seems completely oblivious.

Of course, there could be an explanation for Ed's aloof manner of late. He's recently been spending the little free time he's got in the company of a young lady called Alice Tamworth. _Alley._ She was two years ahead of Isobel at Lady Barn House. She's taking a degree in literature at U of M. Isobel likes Alley. Rather a lot, in fact. But she's turned Eddie's brains to mush. Which is why Isobel has resolved that love is not for her. The path she's chosen demands excellence, and the pressure on her will always be greater by virtue of her having been born female. She can't afford to give her studies — or her work — less than her absolute best.

Why, then, is it suddenly so difficult to ignore the piercing blue of Reginald's eyes? And why does it feel as though his ability to discern tiny details about her is rooted in something deeper than just friendship?

"Earth calling Isobel," Reginald teases.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry. I was miles away."

He grins. _Was he always so handsome?_

"Penny for them." He pulls out a chair for her and indicates she should sit before taking a seat of his own.

She smiles softly, feeling her cheeks pink. "I doubt they're worth that much."

"Ha'penny, then." He smiles again. Her heart pounds in her chest. _He's gorgeous._ How had she missed it all this time?

"Have you noticed a change in Ed lately?" she manages. If he's so skilled at reading her, she shouldn't have to elaborate.

"You mean the way his brains leave the building whenever Alley's around?" He shakes his head. "Wanker."

"Exactly, and I hope you tell him that! Lad's twenty; he can do what he wants, but—"

Reginald scowls. "No, he bloody well can't! Not as much as your dad relies on him; never mind the fair _fortune_ he and your mum are spending on his education. Oh I'm bally well brassed off with him; don't you worry … missing clinic hours, failing to submit assessments. He's had the world handed to him on a silver platter and he's blowing it spectacularly. But haven't you got bigger fish to fry?"

She grins. "Well then … tell us how you really feel!" He studies his shoes and she notices the way his ears redden. She likes that about him. Come to that she can't think of anything she _doesn't_ like about him. Shaking off that realisation, she continues, "It's everything you said … and I suppose it also makes me think that if love does that to a person, it's an experience I'll have to forgo." He scoffs and she rebuffs him. "You can't sit here and tell me I'm wrong, Reggie! Both you and my brother got onto the premed course by virtue of your marks alone. I, on the other hand, was made to provide twice the number of character references and go ten rounds with the department chair over whether my science A-levels will count seeing as I finished them a year ago. And all of that despite having higher UKCAT scores than the both of you!" She pauses for breath, her expression moving through agitation to resignation. Ruefully she adds, "It's a risk I can't afford."

He rises from his chair and walks towards the door. It's only moments until she's due at the podium. "Look, I'll go. I came to say good on you and break a leg and walk out there with your head held high because you've earned this …"

Getting to her feet, she moves to the doorway. "Reg, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so ratty. Thank you for coming to see me." She squeezes his bicep, smiling softly.

"I'm not going to argue with you. We haven't any of us chosen an easy path: you, me, or Ed. And there's no doubt you've had a harder go than us. You'll always have an uphill climb. I just think it's a mistake to write off love because of it." The earnestness in his eyes catches her on the back foot.

"That's as may be," she demurs, eyes cast towards the floor. "All the same, I can't see why you should trouble yourself with what I think. I mean I know I'm like a little sister to you, but—"

"No, Isobel. That's not how I see you at all." Their eyes meet. He takes a small step closer to her. The world stops turning as she watches his eyes flit from her own eyes to her lips. He touches her shoulder, his hand moving up to cradle her cheek.

 _Surely he isn't … He can't … He_ _ **is!**_ _He's going to kiss me!_ "Reggie," she whispers, almost too faintly to hear, "I don't know how … I've never—"

"I know," he murmurs. "It's alright." He leans in. She can feel his breath on her face.

 _I should close my eyes,_ she thinks. _Aren't you supposed to close your eyes?_ He stops just short of her mouth. Giving her time to pull away. _Oh! he's warm. And he's handsome. And I don't want to close my eyes. I should touch him. Shouldn't I touch him?_ She's never been in such close proximity to a man before. To be sure, she's danced with Daddy and Ed at weddings and hospital functions, but they don't count. She reaches up with uncertainty and fumbles, her hands finding purchase in the lapels of his jacket.

In the next moment his lips touch hers and apprehension vanishes. He is so gentle, brushing the backs of his fingers across her face. She has no idea what she's doing, how to make this enjoyable for him, but as the first kiss melds into the second she opens her mouth under his, and then so does he. She makes a sound that surprises her, moaning into his mouth when he deepens the kiss and she doesn't want this _shouldn't want this oh sod it all this is_ _ **incredible**_ _but what the hell does it mean? Oh shut up, for the love of God would you just shut up and enjoy something like a normal person for once you fool?_

"Oh!" she gasps loudly when the tip of his tongue slips just past her teeth. _Alright, I was wrong; this isn't unpleasant at all and his mouth is so sweet and I don't want to stop and—_

He pulls back. She gasps again, missing the softness of his lips. "Are you alright?" he pants. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She frowns, inching closer to him again, aiming to put her hands on his shoulders. He stops her, taking her hands in his own.

She has never thought of herself as small. In fact, she has scarcely ever given any thought whatsoever to her stature. Wit is the standard by which she has measured herself against others. Intellect. But now she notices two things: firstly, that her hands are tiny, held inside of Reginald's. And secondly, she doesn't want him to let go. _Ever._

"I shouldn't have done that," he whispers, looking down at their hands. Her left thumb has begun tracing tiny circles over the blue veins on the underside of his wrist. He should stop her. He doesn't.

"Why not?" she counters. "It was … nice. Wonderful, actually. I suppose the first time was going to happen sooner or later, and there's no one I'd—" She stops herself suddenly, realising what she'd been about to say. _There's no one I'd rather have done this with._ She scolds herself. _But you just finished saying that love is for fools, not for women fighting like hell against men for the right to practise medicine. Not for_ _ **you.**_ Her cheeks flush bright red and she presses a hand to her mouth.

Yet he still holds the other. He waits for her eyes to meet his.

"There's a longer conversation to be had," he says gently, astutely. "But now you've got to go. Look, it doesn't have to mean anything, Isobel, if you don't want it to—"

"Yeah, but _you_ do! You never do anything unless you mean it." She pauses briefly, pacing back and forth. "Right, I can't talk now. But we need to do …"

"So ring me up when you're ready. Best of luck out there, you'll smash it. I'm going to go find your dad and mum." He drops her hand and starts to walk away.

She catches his wrist. "Wait," she implores him, sounding less steady than she means to do. "Reggie, I …" She leans in and presses her lips to his, her own mouth opening slightly. They breathe together and a soundless ' _Oh!'_ escapes his lips. She kisses him again, this time more deeply as he finds her hands and wraps their fingers together. All too soon it's over and they're left gasping, standing too close for two people who are just friends. "I don't know, alright?" she whispers, meeting his eyes. He nods. "But I'll ring you."

He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. "You've done it, Izzy," he says, giving her fingers a squeeze before leaving go of her hand. "Congratulations." As he walks away she touches her lips. They still tingle from his kisses.


End file.
